I come home from tutions and lunch; and lie in bed to rest a little. I feel gradual rise of my heartbeat, the growing discomfort and a sort of hostility in my throat (what else to call it?). Do i call it anxiety? Every moment steals from pathetic excuse that is my existence. I wish to call, to scream, to call out to someone, but I have no one to talk to. There are so many ways in which I am pathetic and poor. With no money, no family and no will to live. How do i fight this? Is there anything I can say that has not already been said about this? Something in me fights and wishes to assert itself on the world before it perishes but the world, perhaps justly, has no patience for me.
Everyone around me agreed that I was always strange. I wait for moment when this strangness will established my inability to find a space in the world beyond all doubts. I wait for the moment when the disquiet will engulf me whole. Years pass, life passes me by and I am no better than a piece of furniute that doesn't register the passing time except in its depreciation. If only I too was unconscious like furniture; that moreover doesn't even suit the room it is placed in. But, no I am too conscious of my the loss and I suffer from it, would rather it end this moment or at least someone would notice it if only to say, "This old piece deserves to be scraped." How sweet would be the sound of someone agreeing! Of someone agreeing that annihilation is the only course left for me.
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